


Flight

by orphan_account



Series: Falling Differently [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-27
Updated: 2013-07-27
Packaged: 2017-12-21 13:26:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/900816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It happens a little over ten miles outside of the small town of Beacon Hills. The old, well-loved, seen-better-days jeep breaks down. Sorrow and resigned acceptance are overshadowed by terror, and the surety that to stop and wallow will be to invite death.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Flight

**Author's Note:**

> I'm apparently starting a new series, _Falling Differntly_ , even though I have way too many still in progress. Because of course.

It happens a little over ten miles outside of the small town of Beacon Hills. The old, well-loved, seen-better-days jeep breaks down. Sorrow and resigned acceptance are overshadowed by terror, and the surety that to stop and wallow will be to invite death.  
  
The driver takes only a handful of seconds to press his forehead against the worn surface of the steering wheel before slapping his free hand upon it decisively and unbuckling his seat belt. The other curves protectively around the back of the bundle around his neck, keeping it secure and safe from jostling as the seat belt slides back and the driver opens his door.   
  
With a carefully controlled fall, he exits the defunct vehicle and closes the door. Then he opens the trunk, taking out a fraying black backpack. He slides the first strap over his free arm and then uses it to clutch at his original burden, sliding the second strap on. Closing the trunk, he locks the jeep in hope of soon returning to it with someone who might have the ability to restore it - not to its glory days, but at least to a state that could be considered functional.   
  
An unsteady sigh escapes him, and he glances furtively around the trees that line both sides of the road. He sees no one, but the deep, starless night, brought on by the thick, rolling clouds above preys upon him, making every shadow seem sinister and searching. The haunting call of an owl startles him into motion, and he sets out for the promised haven at a fast, slightly uneven clip.  
  
Time passes in a mindless montage of blue, faded Converse falling and rising upon tarmac, huffed breaths, and woodland noises. There is no way to measure how far he has traveled other than the soreness in his shoulders and the aches in the soles of his feet. He tries to count his steps, but loses track as other, more significant troubles tug at his attention.  
  
At one point, his ears pick up the tell-tale sound of tires coming up behind him. He throws himself off of the road, wrapping both arms around the bundle against his chest as he makes for the cover of the previously foreboding trees. What must be an ancient red oak shields him from the view of any passersby, and he peeks out as the sound of the incoming vehicle draws nearer.   
  
Relief explodes out of him in the form of a massive sigh. He has nothing to fear from tiny two-door trucks like the one ambling down the road. With a soft chuckle, he waits until the truck is out of sight and then returns to the road. For the first time since he began his journey two days ago, he allows himself to believe that he might actually succeed.   
  
He has not gone five steps further when headlights light up the night around him, and he glances back, his eyes wide with fright at the sight of three sleek black sedans headed his way. Cursing, he dives right back into the trees and begins to run, though his gait is weighed down both in the back and in the front.   
  
Though his breathing was already labored, it becomes even more so, and his heart pounds like the bass drum he took great joy in beating throughout his middle school years. A weak, trembling howl echoes in the air around him, and he prays more fervently than he has ever prayed before.   
  
A root snags one of his feet, bringing him to his knees as he overcompensates, curling around his precious cargo. He hears someone running toward him, and he slams his eyes shut as a despairing tear makes its way down his dotted cheek. His eyes snap open again at the resounding howls which next meet his unbelieving ears, and his jaw drops.   
  
Two red points of light race ever closer, yellow lights appearing to fly above them. Struggling to his feet, he watches as the two red points become two eyes, accompanied by the lithe form of a large black wolf. Behind the wolf, several betas run, some on two feet, some down on all fours.   
  
The giant wolf stops before him, shifting and resolving into the form of a powerful woman of indeterminate age while the betas form a circle around them. One beta comes forward with a dress for the woman to slip into, and then steps away, every movement deferent, as it should be to such an alpha.   
  
Her eyes fading from red to brown, the alpha trains her piercing gaze upon the young fugitive. “Why have you come here and brought hunters into my territory?” Her nostrils flare briefly, and her eyes flash red once more. “You smell of a werewolf, yet clearly are not. Who are you?”  
  
“Wh- how do you know I’m not a werewolf?”  
  
The alpha pointedly turns her gaze closer to the ground, and upon following it, he sees the blood slowly dripping out of the cut he has not even noticed until now. The denim around it is torn and stained, and he looks at the root still in his way accusingly. It’s sharper than it has any right to be. If he weren’t worried about injuring himself further, he would kick it in retaliation.  
  
Since he would rather keep the rest of his blood _in_ his body, he refrains and turns his attention to something safer. The focus of all the werewolves presses down upon him as he uses the pad of his thumb to brush away the concealment ward, letting everyone see the sling wrapped around him. He turns slightly, giving the alpha a clear look at what he carries within it.   
  
“Alpha Hale, my name is Stiles Stilinski, and I am the emissary for the Lahey pack. This is Isaac, the last of the Laheys. I am _sorry_ for bringing the hunters here, but we need your help.”


End file.
